Two Poems

For the Girl Caught in a Landslide

People won’t remember her blue veins.
They won’t think of the Rubenesque hips
she could weave circles with—they’ll only
remember she was afraid of being buried

alive. They won’t think of the way she
watched groups of arrowed geese drag
across the backdrop of a summer up north,
the sloping contours of Canada, but will

remember her out of place at home, in Florida.
There, skinny-limbed girls will kick over sandcastles
to make room for towels that they’ll lay on, bronzed.
They will remember someone, fleeting and pallid,

and forget again, when they flash past ice cream
parlors and storefronts that glimmer with pastel pinks
and greens. Somewhere, a palm-reader will foresee
her billboard, paint-peeled, but still opens up her shop.

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Rachel Deer-Katz lives in Tampa, Florida and works in the child welfare system. She has previously been published in Slipstream, Grist Journal, and Bayou Magazine.